


All My Ghosts Come Back to Me

by trillingstar



Category: Oz (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Ghosts, Holiday Exchange, M/M, Oz Magi, Post-666, handwavey magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/pseuds/trillingstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toby's being haunted by the ghost of Chris Keller.  Who can he call?  Winchesters!<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Ghosts Come Back to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WarpedMinded](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarpedMinded/gifts).



> Post-666.  
> 

  
During the séance, Chris showed up to ridicule everyone and smash a table in half, which seemed on par for the course. 

Toby was relieved. Who knew how being dead might have changed Chris Keller? He'd never liked going anywhere or doing anything on command – a real issue with authority, one might say with a delicate cough – and it was comforting that hadn't changed, even when Chris was forced to answer the call of a necromancer.

"So that's your ghost," Dean said. He was trapped between half of the table and the wall. Toby watched him push fruitlessly at the lip of the table for a few seconds, and then went over to help Sam lever up the heavy mahogany so that Dean could wriggle free. 

"Yeah, that's my baby," Toby said. He eyed the shards of pottery scattered on the floor. "This vase of methamphetamines didn't seem up to the task."

"Urn of Methuselah," Sam corrected. "And this ritual should have worked." 

"Great, Sammy," Dean said. "But it didn't, and now we got some vengeful spirit called down to wreak violence, destruction, and probably death on us. Just great."

"Mmhmm," Sam said, poring over a sheaf of papers. 

"You don't have to worry," Toby said. "Everyone who hurt me's already dead. I mean doornail dead, not incorporeal and floating in the ether. As far as I know."

"No offense, but we have a tiny bit more experience with this kinda thing," Dean said. 

_With ghosts?_ Toby wanted to ask. The ghosts that Toby was responsible for clung to him, clouding his vision, until they sank in deep enough for an infinite hurt. After a while they were part of him. Those kinds of ghosts required hundreds of hours of intimate, psychiatric analysis. On the other hand, ghostly Chris? A whole 'nother deal, and Toby figured Sister Pete might've been proud of him for realizing the difference.

*

The mirror was painted thick with steam the first time that Chris showed up in Toby's bathroom, which probably saved Toby from the fast track to Crazytown, because in the swirling haze, it was hard to tell what was real and what was his own hardcore fantasy. To think that his bucket list used to consist of things like _own a private island_ and _join in for the Polar Bear Plunge_. Now it was embarrassing stuff: watch Chris standing at the sink to shave; hold Chris's hand while he fell asleep; move to Ecuador, buy a house on the beach and get to see Chris tan, Chris smiling, Chris's eyes sparkling with appreciative lust. Domestic bullshit that would never, ever happen. Toby had even rubbed a few out while imagining Chris pecking at a keyboard with two fingers, or doing something so mundane as standing. In line, maybe, or just standing, doing nothing. All in the sun. All naked, preferably, and all for Toby's eyes only. 

It was like Toby had wished Chris into existence, though he didn't think that he'd ever put so much desire into wishing as he had when Chris had fallen back over the rail. 

"You look like shit," Chris said, right in Toby's ear. 

Toby plucked a shank from the toothbrush holder – there were shanks all over the house at that point – and whirled around, slashing out with the pointed end. He caught Chris right in the gut, and both the shiv and Toby's arm passed right through Chris's form. 

"What a warm welcome, lover," Chris said, blinking slowly in amusement.

"Holy fucking fuckshit," Toby said.

"Yeah," Chris said. "Tell me about it."

*

"Paranormal investigators?" Chris asked. He was reading the computer screen over Toby's shoulder.

Toby shrugged. "Seemed like as good an idea as any."

"'Ghostfacers'?" Chris's voice was rich with derision. "You're seriously expecting me to waggle my ass for some dumbfucks who call themselves _that_?"

"It's not something you can look up in the phone book," Toby said. "Hey, how about you interrogate your fellow ghosts or something? There must be a couple of names being tossed around."

Just one, as it had turned out: Winchester.

*

"No, no," Toby said. "You misunderstand. I don't want to exorcise him or send him anywhere, heaven or hell. I want to keep him."

Sam, the taller brother sporting shaggy brown hair, gawked at Toby, and Dean, shorter and sterner, got straight to the point. "Why would you want to do a stupid-ass thing like that? Ghosts aren't playthings. They're dangerous."

Sam cleared his throat. "They're worse than dangerous; even if the Chris Keller you knew was kind and generous, being a ghost trapped between planes will have turned him – well, mean. And possibly evil." 

Toby snorted. It made him look crazy – crazier – but he said, "If he wasn't dangerous, I wouldn't know what to do with him. Maybe other people change from good to bad, but Chris? He was always bad. I'm not worried."

"Look, Mr Beecher..." Sam trailed off. He exchanged a quick look with Dean.

"What my brother's trying to say is maybe we're not the right fit for this job," Dean finished, his smile never reaching his eyes.

"Huh," Toby said, extracting a roll of $100 bills from the pocket in his jacket. "Well, I'll just start counting, and when you think I've reached the point where you are the right fit for this job, you let me know."

*

What's the difference, then, Tobias? 

Well Sister, it's love. I didn't love anyone else I killed. I didn't even mourn a couple of them. You could argue that I had an indirect hand in my son's death, but ultimately I wasn't the one who committed that crime. I still blame myself for it. That's different, too. 

So you loved Chris, and that makes it better?

Better? No. Worth it? Yes. 

Worth it? Could you expand on that?

I want him with me; I want him with me always. Death's not going to keep us apart.

But Tobias, you seemed so accepting and almost – relieved, when we spoke in the gym.

Was there a single thing I could have said or done that would have done anything except delay my parole?

Still need a few minutes to noodle on that one, Sister?

*

"What's wrong?" Chris asked.

Standing at the kitchen island, Toby buttered his toast, then cut off the crusts. 

"Beecher, for fuck's sake," Chris said.

"Weird dreams," Toby muttered. "And I have this meeting with the Winchesters in a couple of hours to discuss how much more I'll be shelling out for another Messianic urn."

"'S probably some tchotchke they pulled off eBay," Chris said. He eyed Toby's toast. "Gonna put peanut butter on that?"

"No," Toby replied. "But I can leave the jar open on the counter if you want to sniff it."

Chris had retained all of his senses except taste – which, no problem, he didn't need to eat – and touch, which was the one that Toby wanted the most.

*

The second vessel worked better. There was a dramatic flash of light and a shower of red sparkles; Sam's grasp on Toby's hand tightened, a reminder to keep chanting, and Toby watched as Dean fed slivers of ginger root into the container. 

Chris shimmered into existence and then disappeared, sucked into the jug. Dean stuck a cork in the top. Toby tried not to laugh. One bottled Keller, coming right up.

Trying to be surreptitious, Sam wiped his palm on his jeans. Toby winked at him. "You got a good grip, kid."

Sam blushed. Dean was up in Toby's face the next moment, shoving the jug at him. "We're done here. C'mon, Sammy, get your stuff."

"Thanks," Toby said, surprised at how sincerely he felt toward both Winchesters. He'd jerked Sam's chain just enough to get them both gone, for them to want to forget some crazy, handsy guy who wanted a pet ghost. "I mean it. Thank you."

Dean's expression softened. "Sure. Don't mention it." His gaze swept Toby up and down. "Seriously, don't mention it, not to anybody."

"Secret's safe," Toby replied. 

*

"So I'm some kinda fucking genie in a bottle now?" Chris yelled. "What the fuck!"

"I can think of a few wishes," Toby said. 

Chris spun on his heel and stalked back toward Toby.

Toby crossed his arms. "Can't think of any? Want to borrow one of mine?"

"Fuck you," Chris sneered.

"So you already know them," Toby said.

Chris stared at him, a muscle in his jaw jumping, and then he started to laugh. "Jesus, Toby."

"Look, the ritual and the jug and all of that... that's so you can't leave," Toby said, even though they'd talked about what it would mean before Toby had called up Sam and Dean.

"I don't wanna leave," Chris said.

"I know," Toby said. "But it's more for anyone who might try to take you away from me. The Winchesters, they're hunters, and there are more like them out there, people who destroy ghosts, send 'em packing."

"Not me," Chris said. "Not _me_."

"Not you," Toby agreed. "You and me, we're not like the rest of them."

Chris's fingers ghosted across Toby's cheek.  


**Author's Note:**

> Written for WarpedMinded for the Oz Magi holiday shankfest of 2013. [Originally posted on LJ](http://oz-magi.livejournal.com/112872.html).
> 
> Request 2:  
> Pairing/Character(s): Beecher/Keller  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: The Winchester brothers and their angel were a weird sort, but as long as they can get rid of the ghost that is haunting their house, it's all good.  
> Canon/AU/Either: AU  
> Special Requests: Crossover with Supernatural if you please.  
> Story/Art/Either: Story  
> 


End file.
